


Until Death Do Us Part

by ibandnerdfangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Tumblr Prompt, johnlock maybe, otp, soulmate, you'll have to read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3749566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibandnerdfangirl/pseuds/ibandnerdfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A soulmate au in which John is in search of his soulmate, based on their last words. That are printed on his arm. (idk I suck at these, just trust me on this ok? ok.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro? Intro.

**Author's Note:**

> I got this AMAZING prompt from the wonderful aceofultron (and others) from Tumblr! (she's really cool, go follow her..) 
> 
> 'soulmate au where instead of your soulmates first words to you written on your skin it’s their last words you ever hear them say so you don’t know who your soulmate is until you lose them'
> 
> http://aceofultron.tumblr.com/post/115638999945/soulmate-au-where-instead-of-your-soulmates-first

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr: astafandomtrash

I remember, specifically, the details of when we first met in the lab. Mike introduced us. He had on that ridiculous tie that looked like Fruit Stripe gum. I was still walking with that cane and living out of some Hobbit hole of a flat. Really not the most luxurious life, but meeting Sherlock Holmes changed that. It sounds cliché, but he really did change my life for the better. Or worse depending on how you look at it.

I also remember mum explaining to my sister and I about the words printed on our forearm when I was younger. Everybody had something different written there: "I love you Charlotte…" "Watch this!" "Don't let me go sweetie." Almost everybody had something, except for a few people- but I've only ever seen two without them. Children would scratch at the words, seeing if they could make it go away, or simply to pass time. But they never left.

When my sister asked our mummy about them, she sat us down to explain it. "It's a bit complicated," she started off by saying, "But those words on your arm will be the last words your soulmate will ever say." Extending her arm, she revealed a sentence of her own: "I'll miss you."

My sister, who was older than me and had a better grasp of the concept, asked, "Does dad have them too?"

"Mhm! His say, 'I will always love you.' Those are the last words I will ever say. But that's only if I'm his soulmate." This idea dumbfounded me for the longest time, but as I grew older I began to get a grasp at it.

The words on my arm say, “John, it was a pleasure to love you.” I have them memorized, as do most, for when the time comes for my soulmate to pass.

I kept these words in mind when I took my first step into the Baker Street flat. Sherlock bustled about, trying to tidy up as much as possible, while I watched fondly on. Too fondly, as it might seem, as the landlady Mrs. Hudson picked up on it, giving me a sly smile on the way to the kitchen.

From that day on, Sherlock Holmes and I were practically inseparable. He solved crimes and I blogged about it.

His favorite cases were murders, but only the ones that fit his standards. The man could be a bloody bastard when he wanted to be, but he always settled into a calm, quiet state that was tolerable.

There were three particular cases leading up to the discovery of the infamous, Moriarty. His name acerbic to the ear and sour on the tongue. Cases I titled, A Study in Pink, The Blind Banker, and The Great Game.

The first one having to do with a murderous cabbie, his final breath heaving the name, “Moriarty.” Sherlock never understood what he was trying to say, as this name was unfamiliar to Sherlock. The cabbie was the first person I’ve seen without a soulmate’s words on his arm.

The second case had to do with gangs and break-ins. I don’t know what caught his attention in the first place with this one- it seemed even boring to me. But, nevertheless, he took it up, spending days on end without food or sleep. This new schedule of his scared me at first but it soon became routine, not that I always agreed with it.

And the third. Bombs strapped to the chests of innocents, including myself. The case ended at a local pool late at night, and Moriarty introduced himself to us formally. Many words were spat back and forth at each other, but the scene ended with him getting away, threatening to take Sherlock out later.

I try hard to forget Moriarty, but it always nags at the back of my head. What if his threats are true? What if he does decide to destroy Sherlock? What if, what if, what if. It’s always if.

The more time I spent with Sherlock, the better I got to know him. I’ve seen glimpses of the words on his arm whenever he reaches for something and his sleeve rides up, but never the entire sentence. And I haven’t ever remembered to bring it up. But life went on. We continued to solve crimes together, even working for the Queen through the British government.

It always terrifies me, though, knowing that Sherlock could be my soulmate. I’m scared if he is, but I’m also scared if he isn’t. All I know, is that right now, this man has consumed my life, and I am very okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a test chapter to see how it rolls over with you guys!! FEEDBACK IS MY BEST FRIEND, if you guys like it, LET ME KNOW so I can continue with this story. And I promise that it gets better than introducing what 99% of you already know, so C: (yea, it was a pretty short chapter, but there was little to write about without launching entirely into the plot just yet)


	2. A Fall to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's last words?

Sherlock and I solved crimes day in and day out. I’ve tried going back to work, and technically have a full time job at the nearby hospital, but the cases always win out over being a doctor. Occasionally we had down time, which we spent in the sitting room, blogging and thinking.

He had his hands poised under his chin, fingers creating a web to support his head. I was seated comfortably in my red lounge chair, clacking away at the keyboard on my laptop, updating my blog with the case, _The Hounds of Baskerville._ Looking over, I noticed printing on the lower arm of Sherlock where his sleeve failed to reach his wrist completely.

I squinted at him before speaking, “Hey, Sherlock, I know it’s none of my business, but, what does your arm say?” His eyes snapped open at my voice, and without moving, he peered down at where his sentence was.

“Oh, yeah. Forgot that.” And with that, he closed his eyes.

“Sherlock?” No answer. “Sherlock.” No answer. “Sherlock!” He rolled onto his side on the couch to face me, curling his legs to his chest.

“Yes?”

“I asked you a question if you weren’t listening. What’s your arm say?”

Unbuttoning his cuff, he drew up his sleeve to finally reveal the words on him left arm, “It says: ‘Love her.’”

“What’s that mean?”

Sherlock inhaled sharply before laying on his back again, “No idea. That’s why I disregard it most of the time. I don’t like not knowing.”

“Oh,” I guess I should’ve known.

“What does your arm say?”

“Hm? Oh, uh it says: ‘John, it was a pleasure to love you.’”

He scoffed, “Ooh, how romantic.”

“Hey I don’t get a choice in what it says, you know.” I snapped at him, suddenly defensive.

That wonderfully frustrating smirk spread across his lips.

“Me neither, as it seems.” He raised his eyebrows at me before rolling off the couch and straightening up, “Dinner?”

“Mm, I’m starved,” I answered, closing my laptop.

That was the last moment of peace we had before Moriarty interfered again.

It was a call from Lestrade, informing us that Moriarty had broken in the case where the Crown Jewels were kept. Then leading to a day in court for our testimony. I advised Sherlock not to say anything that would get either of us in trouble. But the idiot just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Moriarty got away without any consequences. Then one odd happening lead to another, with fairytales and IOU’s. Which leads me to now.

I burst through the door of the lab, enraged with the news Mycroft told me about his “trade” for information. Sherlock was nonchalantly bouncing a rubber ball against a cabinet door, mimicking the same move as if on autopilot. His mid was obviously somewhere else.

“Got your message,” I stated. He broke out of his trance at the sound of my voice. Turning, still sitting on the floor, he explained Moriarty’s plan to use the key to destroy him, and explained to me how we could use the code to reverse the action against the criminal.

“Uh, huh.” I was taking in all of the information, trying to keep up with the detective.

For an hour we sat in the lab, struggling to come up with a way to get back at Moriarty. Sherlock began rolling the ball across the table under his fingers, and I fell asleep. I woke to my harsh ringtone, the other man still pushing around the ball.

Lazily, I answered, “Yea, speaking.” I paused for the caller to speak. “What? Is she okay? Oh my, yea I’m coming.” Panic swallowed my mind as I had been informed that our landlady had been shot.

I relayed the information on to the detective urging him to come with me to see her in the hospital. “She’s dying, Sherlock. Let’s go.”

To which he replied with an answer so impossible, “You go, I’m busy.” _I’m busy._ Sherlock could not walk away from his work for the woman who practically mothered him in his adult years. Mrs. Hudson was _dying_ and Sherlock was _busy_.

That was my last straw, and I went off on him.

“She’s my landlady,” He shrugged.

“You…machine,” I snatched my coat and hurried out the door leaving a few biting words in my wake.

I practically threw myself in front of a cab, “The hospital, in uh, just down the road, yeah?” My mind refused to cooperate with me.

The taxi stopped in front of a hospital Mrs. Hudson was admitted to. I sprinted through the doors and to the secretary, “What room is Hudson in?”

“Hudson?” The woman gave me a confused stare, “I don’t believe we have a Hudson here.”

“What? No! There _is_ a Hudson here. Mrs. Martha Hudson, she was shot.” I could hear my own voice wavering at the last word.

She turned to her computer, her fingers flying over the keys, “No, I’m sorry sir. No patient here goes by either of those names. I’m sorry.”

I stepped back and ran my fingers through my hair, _what?_ “Ok, uh, thank you.”

Running out into the road in the new morning air, I hailed for a cab to take me back to the flat. I threw money at the driver and stumbled onto the sidewalk and into the little entryway, where Mrs. Hudson stood, unscathed.

“Oh! You gave quite the scare! Has Sherlock figured everything out yet?” One by one, pieces in my head began to click together.

I sighed and ran out the door. “Bart’s,” I practically yelled. The ride to the hospital was agonizing. The taxi hardly stopped before I stepped out and started jogging to the doors. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Sherlock.

“Hey, you okay?” He tried to tell me to turn around, but I insisted I was coming in.

“Just… Do as I ask.” His baritone voice demanded.

I turned and look around, “Where are you?” A tall dark figure, which could only belong to Sherlock Holmes, caught my eye. _Oh god,_ I murmured to myself. He was standing on the edge of the roof, he toes precariously hanging over the edge. “Wha- What’s going on?”

I didn’t hear much of what he said after that. My mind was filled with thoughts about him, wondering who put him there, why was he doing this. And in a selfish moment I thought to myself, _Is he my soulmate?_ Here he was, the one person I’ve probably cared about more than my own family, about to jump from a building. A building that seemed much taller in this situation.

The words on my arm flashed for an instant in my mind: _It was a pleasure loving you, John_.

There was no doubt in my mind that I loved this man. But could he be my soulmate?

“L-leave a note when?” I knew what was about to happen but I refused to accept it.

“Goodbye, John.” He tossed his phone to the side.

“ _SHERLOCK!_ ”

And he dove. Hours it felt like I watched him fall, his coat billowing behind his flailing limbs. Then he hit. My chest imploded and I couldn’t breathe. I dropped my own phone and started slowly, picking up speed, to see Sherlock. Some biker rammed my shoulder, knocking me to the ground.

I lay on the ground, my head and heart pounding. Rolling around, my mind ached, but I jumped to my feet and bolted towards the gathering crowd.

“L-let me through, he’s my friend.” I didn’t recognize my own voice. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of my best friend lying cold on the ground. Maroon blood dampened his hair and paramedics swarmed him.

My whole world fell apart and I was lost. His words, his final words, rang like a death toll in my head, _Goodbye, John_.

It wasn’t him. I’ve been wasting my time. _No,_ I scolded myself for such thoughts. There is nothing I would trade for all the time I’ve spent with Sherlock, the man I love even though he was not be my soulmate.

A hand touched my back, and I looked up. Lestrade’s tired eyes looked down on me like a child. He held an umbrella, for the rain that I forgot about, in his other hand. “John.” His hand moved across my dampened back trying to console me, “John,” He repeated.

“No,” I squeaked, burying my head in my hands, “Sherlock, Sherlock, he’s- Lestrade, he’s…” I couldn’t finish my sentence.

“I know, John,” The man had dark rings under his eyes from last few stressful days. My body shook uncontrollably as rain continued to fall and wash away the blood from Sherlock. “C’mon, let’s get outta here.” He reached his hand under my arm and guided me away from the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update!!!!!! I was without internet for a month or so, but as soon as it was fixed, this was my priority! Again, I love feedback so the more you guys comment, the more I know to continue and the more I can better my writing. Hope you guys enjoyed, and look forward to more updates!


	3. Living Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a letter.

I visited him.

Every day I took a cab, rode for half an hour, and stayed at his tombstone for hours. This became a routine for me. Mrs. Hudson used to come all the time, but after a few months she stopped showing up. She said it was unhealthy for me to stay here like this, but I couldn’t leave him. I showed up every day, even during the harsh winter months.

Sometimes I would bring flowers to replace the ones that had wilted from last week. And then I would sit cross-legged facing the sickening gold lettering. I still talk to him like he’s actually there, telling him about my day, who I was. But it usually ended up with my head in my hands crying. I kept telling myself that I needed to stop showing up, but it was the only time I ever got out of the house.

Lestrade tried to get me to come along on some projects the Yard had, but after turning him down multiple times he stopped asking. Once I showed up and he was there. He mourned quietly, staring at the grave with a pout. The wrinkles became more prominent on his face, as if he were slowing down. But I never saw any dark circles around his eyes. _At least he can sleep at night._ I thought bitterly once.

Molly said she’d come with me today. I never asked her to, but I think she knew I needed someone. She would stop by the flat three or four times a week, bringing the paper or fresh groceries. And I would be sitting in my chair, facing the empty black one across from me.

Then I heard the doorbell ring. Molly. I stood and gingerly grabbed the new flowers from the coffee table, heading downstairs to meet her.

“Hello, John.” She grinned warmly at me, her cheeks a light pink from the biting cold, and her breath visible in the dry air.

“Hi.” I mustered a smile. She could see the hurt but didn’t say anything about it.

Her eyes flicked to the plants in my hand and commented, “I think he’ll like those.” I hummed a response and closed the door behind me, locking it. We both got into the cab she arrived in, and started our long drive to the cemetery.

“So, uh, what have you been doing?” I tried desperately to make conversation so she wouldn’t say anything about my deteriorating appearance.

“Oh, you know. The usual. Examining, testing, tagging.” She looked at me expectantly, “And you?”

“Oh! Erm, not much really. Been visiting Sherlock often. Probably going to move out of the flat soon.” She hadn’t know about my plans to leave.

“I understand. Have you found a place?”

“Yea, actually, Mrs. Hudson helped me pick out a new flat in my price range. Actually further away from the cemetery. I hope it’ll get me to stop showing up so often.” The sound that came out of my throat was half a chuckle, half a sob. We rode on in silence after that, arriving at the graveyard shortly.

We stood at the sight. She let me speak to him without interrupting, and even said a few words herself.

“Brr,” She shivered running her hands up and down her arms sporadically to keep warm. “Let’s go, it’s getting chilly out.”

“No, no, you go on ahead, I need a little longer.” Suddenly her hand was on my arm.

“John. It’s freezing out here. It’s not healthy the way you’ve been living lately, and I didn’t want to say anything because I thought you’d have the sense to turn yourself around. But I can see not. You need to go back to work, get out with friends again, buy your own groceries. Normal things. I know Bart’s needs a new doctor, and we just hired a new secretary. Please, John. Do it for me. Do it for Lestrade. Do it for Sherlock. I _know_ he wouldn’t want you to be living like this.”

My eyes glanced down at her wrist, where the beginning of a sentence could be seen. I quickly looked away, tears threatened to pour out like a broken dam.

“Molly, he wasn’t it. He wasn’t the one.” I sobbed, giving up on maintaining my composure, “His words, his last words. I really thought he’d be the one.”

She looked at me with sad eyes, “I’m so sorry, John.” Her arms wrapped around my shoulders and I cried, leaving wet tear spot on her jacket, “Let’s go.” Molly guided me out of the field and back to the street corner where she hailed a cab. I got in, but she didn’t follow, “Baker Street,” she told the cabbie, then looked at me, “Do it for Sherlock, okay? Please.” And with that, she closed the door.

I looked down at the writing on my arm and tears began to roll again. The driver looked in his rearview mirror at me, “You’re that guy who worked with that Sherlock character.” My eyes shot up and bore into his stare, “I’m sorry ‘bout him. It must be hard to find out someone like that was faking the ent-”

I didn’t let him finish, “He was real! I was there! Don’t you _ever_ talk like that about him again.” I stormed out of the car, slamming the door behind me. Marching off, I decided to take Molly’s advice.

I went to Bart’s and asked for a job. The secretary, whose name tag read “Mary,” set up an interview for me next week. I thanked her and headed to the grocery store to buy food with the money Mrs. Hudson had left in an envelope for me.

…

It’s been about a month since I got the job at Bart’s, and to my surprise, I had the motivation to actually work. It did feel good to be doing something with my life again. Helping those who were sick or injured. I’ve long since moved out of 221B and into my new flat.

About a week ago I went to the pub with Lestrade and some other guys from the Yard. Mary’s made herself a good friend of mine. It was always nice to have someone at work to talk to.

I’ve caught glimpses of words on her wrist. They spelled out the sentence, _I’ll miss you._ It’s not like they were anything unique. A lot of people had that on their arms, and a lot of people have said it too. Like when a friend leaves for vacation. It might be said, but it’s not necessarily their soulmate.

One day, I went into work and Mary stopped me, “Hi, John! I was wondering if, after work today, you’d like to do lunch?”

I couldn’t help the grin that spread on my face, “Yea, I’d love that.” My face turned pink like a school girl.

“Oh! And this came for you in the mail.” She handed me a yellowing envelope over the desk.

“Thanks,” That’s weird. I never got mail. Upon opening it, I saw that it had only five words, “Thank you for living again.” I read to myself. There was no signature, only three “X’s.” I hummed to myself and shook my head before tossing the letter and envelope in the trash bin in the corner of my room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support!! I decided to post another chapter to hopefully make up for the lack of updates while I was internet-less!! Keep enjoying, it'll get better real soon. xx


	4. An Italian Waiter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's date with Mary goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Obviously I do not own any of the characters, all rights belong to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. (Just wanted to be safe rather than sorry)

Two years have gone by and I’ve visited my therapist about Sherlock exactly once. And then it was only because I needed to get out of the house. But I remember hating every minute of it. She asked me to tell her what I’ve wanted to say to Sherlock. The things I’ve kept bottled up from him all those years. She wanted me to tell her these things as if she actually _were_ Sherlock. I know it’s her job to tell her what I really think in all this, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Mary was really the one who has been helping me through all of this. She and Molly anyways. Molly got me back on my feet and into my new job where I met Mary. She’s an absolute sweetheart, and she never asks about Sherlock or the writing on my arm, even though I’ve noticed hers.

Today marks our one year anniversary, and I want to propose. I really do love her, and I think there’s a chance she could be my soulmate. I would go so far as to call her a female version of myself.

Plans were made to meet at a fancy bistro downtown. I got off work early today and she would be meeting me at the restaurant later, having to change at the hospital.

As I was headed out the door, I pecked her on the cheek and bid her goodbye, reminding her about our date tonight.

“You have so little faith in me!” She chuckled, “I’ll see you tonight love, I promise.” And she turned back to her computer screen.

…

I was nervous. Definitely. I sat at the small table and stared at the menu, reading it over and over until I practically had it memorized. Every time the little bell at the door jingled, my head would whip up to see if it was Mary walking in.

As I waited, a tall Italian waiter asked me if I needed his service. I requested his opinion of champagne for the special night. He suggested the one on the bottom but insisted he surprise me for some reason.

After he left I pulled out the ring, glancing at it and swallowing any apprehension that built up in my throat. Looking down, the little writing on my arm glanced at me. I chuckled to myself and pulled my sleeve down again. I snapped the little red box in my hand closed and set it on the table, looking up to just see Mary walk in. Before she sat down, I snatched the ring back and slipped it in my pocket before she could see.

“Sorry that took so long,” She grinned at me. A stunning purple dress covered her from her shoulders to her ankles, and dangling jewels hung from her ears. “You ok?”

She must’ve seen the look on my face, “Fine! Yea, I’m fine.” Mary asked me about the fancy date.

“Right, I was, erm. I know we haven’t known each other long. And you know these last couple of years,” I swallowed hard, “haven’t been easy for me…” I went on explaining, and opened my mouth to say, “If you’ll have me Mary-” But I never finished because that waiter butted in with the champagne. He babbled on about the wine, presenting it before me. I turned to stop him, “No seriously, could you just-” And then I saw it. Those words on the sleeves rolled too high, the eyes a brilliant and indescribable color, and the grin pointed up in mischief.

I swallowed and looked to Mary as if it were some cruel joke, but she looked just as clueless as I. My gaze dropped to my lap, he was still prattling about the bloody wine. Finally I rose shakily, Mary called my name in question. Inhaling deeply, I stared in absolute disbelief. The wheels in Mary’s head clicked together as he continued talking about God knows what.

He dipped a napkin in the water and only then did I quickly advert my eyes to his wrists for confirmation, “Does yours rub off too?” He asked nodding towards my upper lip. Mary continued muttering about him being dead, “I’m sorry, John. I probably owe some sort of-”

In that moment, I slammed my fist on the table, catching the attention of others, though I didn’t care.

I exhaled shakily, “Two years.” My voice was barely audible. I tried to stop the once healed scars from being pulled away slowly. “Two years.” I repeated. He let me speak for once in his life. The bastard. “I thought- I thought you were dead.” I continued on a while before he interrupted.

“I’m sorry, I just have one- one question. Are you really gonna keep that?” He smiled to himself cheekily. And I. Lost. It.

I lunged forward, grabbing the lapels and charging forward until his feet caught on themselves and we both fell forward. Multiple diners stood in amazement, one of them being Mary, and grabbed at my shoulders to pull me off of the detective.

I sat on the floor stunned, staring off, half at Sherlock, half into a void. He began to open his mouth, but a deadly scowl from me told him to shut it. Most of the patrons dispersed and two waiters rushed over to kick us out of the restaurant.

Before they could even reach us, I was on my feet and marching out the door, not caring if Mary or Sherlock followed. The cold air of the night hit my face but I didn’t as much as blink in response to its foul attempt at calming me. Mary was right behind me, scuffling along as fast as her heels could carry her. I slowed only so she could keep up. “John, what? He was- How- Why did you…” Her voice trailed off. She must’ve spotted Sherlock hurrying to catch up with us.

He had one arm stuffed in his coat, the other hopelessly reaching to find the sleeve trailing behind him. Sherlock jogged to catch up and easily made his way to me and Mary. “John-”

“Shut- up.” I warned without looking the least bit in his direction. I stormed into a quiet little Mexican food place, more forcefully than I had intended, and sat in at a table closet to the back. Mary slid in next to me and Sherlock across. He began speaking again about his plans to avoid death.

“I don’t really care how you faked it, Sherlock. I wanna know _why_.” Of course I would want to know why. I wanted to know why the man I once involuntarily gave my heart to, would leave me like that. He doesn’t know the grief. The struggle he’s put me through. I once thought about going to the top of that same building to jump off dramatically and complete the story.

But he’s not dead. I didn’t have to meet Mary. I could’ve, and would have, stayed at his side faithfully until the end, whether he was my soulmate or not. I used to love and care so deeply for this man, but I only felt hate right now. Hate, and betrayal, and rage, and confusion. Why could he do this to me? Why, why, why?

“To stop Moriar- oh. You wanna know why…” He glanced at Mary briefly, as if looking for support. She glared at him just as maliciously as I. All three of us went back and forth, questioning and answering bits and pieces of why. And then the name “Molly Hooper,” came out of his mouth. _Molly? How could she? How could_ she _of all people do this to me._ I huffed in a large breath before I reached over the table again for his neck.

And again, we were kicked out. Next door, a deli welcomed us in. We didn’t bother to sit down, only leaning against the glass. Sherlock held a napkin to his cut lip. _Good._ Again those wicked letters on his arm peered at me tauntingly. I wanted to tell him. I really wanted to let him know how much I wanted him here instead.

“I’ve missed this.” It came out sarcastic, but inside, I knew it was absolutely true. I missed him so much, but my mind was clouded with fury. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him, but Mary was right there, “ _One word, Sherlock._ ” I hissed under my breath, “ _One word is all I would’ve needed._ One word to let me know that you were alive!” And I would’ve waited. I would’ve waited ten years, a hundred, a thousand to be with him. But I had to suffer through two. Two painful, heart twisting years.

We went back and forth, talking turned to yelling, “So its still a secret?!”

“Yes, promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

“SWEAR TO GOD.” I took a step back. We were causing a disturbance again. He spoke again, daring to ask for _my_ help in a case, insisting that I’ve missed our old lifestyle. Sherlock continued, unfazed by my stare.

Once more I reared back and slammed my forehead into his nose, not enough to break it, but plenty to move around enough bones to bleed. I didn’t speak to him the rest of the night. I only wanted to be left alone.

After hailing a cab, I jumped in, Mary saying farewells to the taller man, and following me in. “Can you believe his nerve?”

“I like him.” She beamed at me. Folding her arms, the first letter of her sentence peeped out. _I’ll miss you._ Yup, I told myself, sounds like something I’d say. I tried to convince myself of that, but struggled to accept it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another update! Again, I love critique's, so feel free to leave a comment so I can improve my writing and the story (i.e. plot holes, grammar, etc.)


	5. Two Near Death Experiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John almost dies. Twice.

It was an extremely slow week at work. Especially after all the “excitement” from Sherlock’s return. Mary kept pestering me to see him and actually have a civilized conversation with him about what’s happened.

So one day I decided I would. I remember standing in front of the door to the flat and pondering whether or not I should go in. Before I made a move some idiot shoved by me, though the sidewalk was perfectly empty. And then a stinging in my neck. Someone had stabbed me with a needle. I struggled, reaching behind me to grab hold of the stranger, but to no avail. The man from before reappeared, as if out of nowhere, and forced me to the ground.

My chest clenched up and I couldn’t speak, let alone breathe. I felt my whole body tense up involuntarily and then I blacked out.

I don’t remember much of when I first awoke, only that I was lying in a shaded area covered with leaves. The sounds of laughter, chatter, and drums could be heard only a few feet in front of me, but I couldn’t see anybody.

Then something was being poured and all the pieces fit together. I was in a burn pile. And it was gasoline being poured over what was soon to be my charred corpse. I tried calling out but my body wouldn’t let me. My throat was completely clenched up along with every other muscle in my body.

I lay helpless, awaiting my fate. My eyelids shuddered a couple of times but that was the most movement I could muster. I tried yelling again, and this time, I got a sound. It wasn’t much, barely audible to me, but it was a sound. I gasped out that same noise over and over in hopes of someone listening. Then fire.

“Help!” I called finally. They heard me, but too little too late. No one could save me now and the fire department wouldn’t get here in time. But I still cried out, “Help!”

I heard a distant familiar voice, faint, but still there, “Move, move, move. _Move_! John!”

And then a higher, more shrill voice, “ _John_!” Mary and Sherlock had found me. The two people I loved most. How? I have no clue. But at least I knew I had a chance.

They were both screaming desperately, making noises I would have if I could. The wood from the flame was disappearing, being thrown to the side, “Help!” It was unbearably hot, and I could only watch on in hopes that they’d get to me before I received any permanent injuries.

Someone was struggling slightly with the flaming pile of rubbish, but they didn’t stop. I felt hands engulfing my form, tugging me from my certain death. I gasped in the crisp air as I was being dragged from the fire. On my back I peered up, searching for the faces that had come to my rescue.

“John?” It was Sherlock, his low voice shuddering, “John,” After staring at nothing, his face came into focus. I saw his damp eyes and cut face. I panted, relieved to be free of the inferno, but still stiff.

“Oh, John. Thank God,” Mary’s voice wavered too. And then I felt Sherlock’s long arms wrap around my shoulders, helping me stand. A crowd started to form and Mary shooed them away.

“I got you, don’t worry.” My legs faltered a few times before they could find a firm hold of the ground. Sherlock never once loosened his grip on me, and Mary trailed at his heels.

“You’re here,” I squeaked out, surprising myself and Sherlock.

“Got here just in time.” He confirmed.

“But…” I gasped in a breath, “The fire… How’d you…?”

“Don’t talk right now, John. Focus on breathing.” He was right. My focus had turned to keeping myself upright, and I almost forgot to breathe. We stumbled to the curb where Sherlock hailed a cab. He helped me in, giving me a nod of assurance before closing the door. _Wait._ I tried calling out too late. Mary got in on the other side.

I gave her a confused look, “He has to return something.” She answered, leaving me just as confused. I made a note to myself to find Sherlock the next day and thank him properly for saving my life.

…

My plan to see Sherlock went about as well as I expected. I never _did_ get around to thanking him though, as he pulled me into another one of his cases without me even knowing it. The next thing we’re doing is following tube tracks from an old station where Sherlock suspected a bomb to be planted.

We came across the supposed car and dived straight in, swinging the beams of our flashlights around dark corners. Sherlock began pulling up a seat that had an obvious red wire running towards it.

“This is the bomb,” He muttered, pulling away the cushion to more and more seats, revealing explosive wiring in each of them. Panic began flooding my chest, and I could see it in Sherlock’s face, no matter how many times he would’ve tried to deny it.

I turned as he began lifting a loose panel in the floor, showing off the central compartment. I heaved in a few breaths as memories came flooding back, none of them good. Situations such as this ended in two ways: scattered in chunks, or barely alive. I’ve lost too many friends, comrades, in this way. I wasn’t about to let that happen again. Not Sherlock. Not this time.

“What do we do?” I let my eyes flick away from the explosive for a split second to notice Sherlock’s confused expression.

“I have no idea,” He breathed, staring at the floor. _Great._

We went back and forth, deciding who was best fit to diffuse it.

“Can we rip the timer off-”

“That would set it off,”

“See you know things!”

As if on cue, the whole carriage lit up suddenly, the mechanism in the floor began counting down in quick, horrifying seconds.

“Go, John.” There it was. The fear in his eyes. I wasn’t about to let this be our last moments together. Those _bloody_ words printed on my arm flashed for moment, and I waited for them to come tumbling out of his mouth. _Why?_ I asked myself, _it’s Mary, not him. Stop this wishful thinking._

I shook my head and opened my mouth, “No, there’s no point now. There’s not enough time to get away, and if we don’t do this now _other people will die_.” Couldn’t he get that across his thick skull? “Your mind palace!”

I got him to at least check to see if he had “diffuse a bomb” in there somewhere. After only seconds he gave me a terrified look. _Oh my god… No…_

His hands fumbled around, looking for some red or blue wire to cut, but came up with nothing, “Sorry,” was all he said.

“What?”

“I- I can’t do it John. I don’t know how.” Did Sherlock Holmes really just admit to that?

I slowly began to give up the idea of our being “soulmates.” _Love her_ was a long ways away from where Sherlock was now. Love who? And the words, _John, it was a pleasure to love you._ made no sense in this case. I’m engaged to Mary. He could never love me.

This was it… I tried to remember the last words I’ve said to Mary, but came up clueless. _Were_ these even our final moments. Could some stroke of luck save us still?

He asked for my forgiveness over and over, “ _What?_ ”

“For all the hurt that I caused you…” Was he talking about being dead for two years, ’cause “I’m sorry,” doesn’t really seem to do much for me right now.

“No, no, no. This is a trick.” I tried to convince myself, “Another one of your bloody tricks.” I hissed at him. He was trying to get _me_ to apologize, or congratulate, or applaud him in some way. That his brilliant plan to commit suicide was worth my while. I watched him lean on one of the car’s chairs.

“I wanted you not to be dead.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Was his response. Even in his dying moments he could still be an arse. “If I hadn’t come back… You’d still have a future, with Mary-”

“Yea,” I stopped him right there, hoping he would take a hint, “I know.”

I gulped down the stale air and decided, if I wasn’t his soulmate, I might as well make these last few seconds count, “You were the best, and the wisest man that I have ever known.” Tears threatened to spill, but I refused.

My words got his head turning, and I continued, “Yes, _of course_ I forgive you.” I couldn’t bear to look at this man.

I braced myself for the impending impact, but only received sounds of the other man _giggling._ Why in the _blue hell_ would he, of all times, be giggling?! He was losing it, which made it harder for me to even breathe. I opened my eyes enough to see him sitting back on his heels, his hand stifling the chuckle that sounded anyways. He had a devilish smile spread across his cheeks as he beamed at me.

I knew it! It was all a set up. The timer on the floor had been stuck, flashing between 28 and 29 seconds. I. Cannot. Believe this maniac. I went off, a string of names and insults while he wallowed in it. His “success.”

“You said such nice things!” He insisted. I saw bouncing lights in the distance.

“And you _did_ call the police-”

“Yes of course I called the police.”

“I will kill you.” I threatened.

“Oh please,” Sherlock smirked playfully at me as he fixed his coat and scarf, “Killing me is so two years ago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around this long! I love getting your guys' feedback and posting these chapters! There will be at the very least, three more chapters to come (it all depends on how much I can cram into one post), and hopefully you will all be around to see the end. xxx


	6. The Best Man's Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is made John's honorary best man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I don't own any of the characters. All right's go to the BBC and Conan Doyle's original work.

After giving up all hopes of Sherlock being my soulmate, my conscious was put at ease in deciding to follow through with marrying Mary Morstan. Soon to be Mary Watson. I always grinned imagining her name like that. Other than Sherlock, she is the most important thing in my life, and I really do love her. Enough to think that the words on my arm would be her last.

A few days before the wedding, Sherlock and I had gone out for a pub hop. As my best man, he was in charge of planning the whole stag night. All two of us. Informing him of his role as best man had been… well, a little heartbreaking to be honest.

I began about talking about the best man, and he assumed an old case about kidnapping, or murders, I don’t know. I had to interrupt him, and redirect his train of thought to the best man for my _wedding._

“Kevin Lestrade?” He suggested, “He is a man, and good at it.”

“It’s _Greg_ ,” How many times have I had to do that? I’ve lost count, “And he is not my best friend.”

“Oh! Mike Stamford, yea well he’s nice. I’m not sure how he’d-”

“Well Mike’s great but _he’s_ not my best friend.” Was he really so blind to this relationship? Apparently, by the confused head tilt I received in response, “Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day in my life.” He began to open his mouth with a face of disgust, “No, it is. And I want to be up there with the two people that I _love_ and _care_ about most in the world.”

“Yes..”

I nodded at him, waiting for the gears to start turning and eventually come to a conclusion. After a few brief moments I said, “Mary Morstan…”

“Yes..”

I sighed. He really was thick with things like this, “And…” I gave him another chance. “You.” His eyelids fluttered as he processed this information in silence, with an unchanging face. “Sherlock.” Still no response. “Yea. That’s getting scary now.”

“So, in fact… Y- you mean…” He paused.

“Yes?” Dear heavens and the gods above, this was both the most amazing and hilarious thing I’ve seen for months, and Lestrade tripped on a curb during a raid.

“I’m your, best… friend?”

“Man.” We said simultaneously. “Yea of course you are. You’re my best friend” This part was a little less hilarious, but still quite funny nonetheless. Did he really not know just _how much_ I cared about him? He may be the single most important thing in my life, next to Mary.

He then proceeded to lift the mug off the table, which had a burnt eye dropped into it not five minutes earlier, and took a sip from it, never breaking eye contact with me.

I wrinkled my brow, “Now how was that?”

His lips wriggled, as if he were tasting the tea like a fine wine, “Surprisingly okay.”

I continued to inform him of the formalities that comes with being my best man. The speech, the bachelor party, all the works.

Skip ahead two weeks to the actual fun. I had met Sherlock fairly early at Baker Street. We started at a pub just down the road and made our way around London. I counted seven places we stopped for drinks- including a possible gay bar? -before I lost count in the flurry of alcohol and the thrill of doing something like this with bloody Sherlock Holmes.

The sun had gone down and we were both nice and drunk, stumbling into 221B and collapsing on the stairs.

“I have an international reputation. Do you have an international reputation?”

After informing him I didn’t, he replied, “And I can’t even remember what for.”

The door to the landlady’s flat clicked open, “Oh! Boys, I thought you were going to stay out late.”

“Ah, Hudders. What time is it?” I smiled to myself when I heard him call her that.

“You’ve only been out two hours.”

Sherlock and I shot up. This was _not_ how our night was going to end. He began clambering up the stairs, and I following behind, grabbing at the tail of his coat to help me up the stairs. Once in the sitting room, I toed off my shoes and headed to the kitchen to pour some whiskey into two glasses, bringing one to Sherlock.

When I walked in, he had a blank sticky note on his forehead and another in his hand, offering it to me. I sat down his glass and accepted the blank piece of paper.

“Wus this?”

“Mm! A guessing game. I’m a person and you’re a person and we ask questions.”

Oh, I know now. I used to play this game with Harry on long car rides. “Aren’t there supposed to be names on these?”

He glanced up at his hairline to the sticky, “Oh. Yea I suppose." Sherlock snatched it off and traded the sticky notes to write names down. I thought it’d be quite funny to put his own name down, see how long it takes him to figure out _that_. He hid his paper from me, as if we were taking a test and I was trying to peek at his answers.

When he finished, I leaned in, and with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, Sherlock slapped the paper on my forehead.

We went back and forth asking questions when he tried to guess, “Am I the current King of England?” I cracked and started wheezing laughing.

“You know we don’t have a king?”

“Don’t we-“

“No, aha… no we don’t.”

He sighed, “Your go.”

I sat forward, a little too far, and grabbed onto his knee for support. It lingered a bit longer than I had planned, and I shrugged, pulling it away.

“I don’t mind.” Sherlock smirked at me, bringing the glass to his lips.

“Am I a woman?”

“Yes.

“Am I pretty? This.” I pointed to my face, feeling the need to clarify which “me.” He rambled on about what defines beauty. “Yea but am I pretty?”

He squinted at me, reading the paper, “Uh, I don’t know who you are or supposed to be.”

“What! You picked the name!”

“It was from the papers!” He defended. “So not as tall as people think I am, I’m nice-ish,” He waved his hands for effect when describing himself. “Ah, got it.” Sherlock laughed to himself, “I’m _you_ aren’t I?”

Before I could answer, Hudders knocked on our doorframe, “Yoohoo! Client!”

 _Now?_ I whined to myself, “Hey.”

“Hallo!” Sherlock’s hands fluttered, waving.

We listened to her story. Sherlock and I positioned ourselves next to each other on the couch against the wall, his arm thrown across the back near my shoulders.

“I would’ve loved to have taken it further...” She continued softly. At that phrase, Sherlock popped up, immediately retracting his arm from behind me. I gave him a funny look but said nothing.

I began nodding off inconspicuously, knowing Sherlock would be able to catch every detail.

“ _With a ghost Mr. Holmes._ ” She exclaimed bitterly. Apparently Sherlock had snoozed off as well. I watched, amused as his head slipped to the floor as he caught himself.

We followed her back to the flat where the young man lived. Sherlock immediately began nosing around. She, the landlord, and I stood off to the side, letting him do his own work. Sherlock stumbled about, whipping off his coat to grab his tiny magnifying glass.

Our client poked me, asking if I was alright.

“Hm? Yea, he’s cluing. Cluing for looks.” I watched him lean into the floor, with his bum in the air, as he fell asleep.

The landlord was not having it, and he stepped forward to grab onto Sherlock's arm. Sherlock immediately spun around, accusing him of… something. The only thing I remember was when he turned and hurled onto the white carpet.

That was the last memory of the night that I could recall. Apparently we were arrested? Because we woke up in a holding cell together.

The door slid open and Lestrade’s voice called in, “Wakey wakey! What a couple of lightweights! You couldn’t even make it to closing time.”

“C- could you whisper-” I asked. I had a massive hangover and every sense on my body was heightened by ten times.

“ _NOT REALLY_.” He yelled in my face. Sherlock was somewhere behind me as I could hear his shuffling. We went back to the flat where Mrs. Hudson offered me an aspirin, which I gladly accepted. She began rambling about her marriage with Mr. Hudson when I heard Sherlock’s footsteps upstairs.

He was working on a case, which I left him to. At first. The day went on and I eventually went home.

The next day _was_ the wedding after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea, not my best chapter. Keep in mind I do write these things at three in the morning so give me a bit of credit. Anyways, hope you all enjoyed! xxx


	7. A Murder, A Waltz, and A Drug Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can go from detective, to performer, to druggie in a minute flat.

Well, the wedding went about as well as I could’ve expected with Sherlock. He struggled to find a balance between sociopath and sociable, but managed quite well. He told stories about some of the cases we’ve had, some funny, some sad, some puzzling. Sherlock even managed to get the whole room crying, making it my cue to hug him, and thank him for all he’s done.

His speech also included the solving of a murder, the potential murder of Major Sholto in fact. Sholto was a very close friend of mine in Afghanistan, and with all of the shared traumas and pain, I couldn’t bear to have someone like _him_ die in a way like _this_. Sherlock solved it fairly quickly however. A belt tight enough around the waist that no one could feel a blade being pushed through the thick fabric. Sholto opened the door and allowed me to bandage and set everything properly.

We went on to the reception after things quieted down.

For Mary and I’s first dance as a married couple, Sherlock played a waltz on his violin that he composed himself. I was able to steal glances at him as he played while dancing with Mary. He feigned concentration on the piece of music in front of him, but I could tell something was bothering his mind. Something that didn’t sit quite right in his head. Perhaps a case that he managed to get tangled up in before the wedding, or problems with his brother. I immediately eliminated the ladder, as I would’ve heard from Mycroft about it. Maybe it was about the close murder of Sholto.

I let the idea drop, as something else caught my attention. The words inscribed on his arm peered out from underneath his coat sleeve as he swayed. I couldn’t help but stare at them, wondering who would be _his_ soulmate. Who else, other than myself, could tolerate Sherlock’s impulsive behaviors and slapdash social skills?

My mind didn’t stray too far off, however, as I felt a loving squeeze in my palm, where Mary’s hand met mine. I grinned at the beautiful woman who I could call my wife, and leaned in to peck her on the cheek.

As Sherlock finished, he bowed and set his instrument down, he began a little speech about the crisis. And vowing to be there for all _three_ of us? He wrapped up quickly and jumped off the stage to meet Mary and me on the dance floor. She asked about the “three” he was talking about, and he quickly informed us about all the signs of pregnancy. That news stunned me for a brief instant. We began talking quickly and over each other about the pregnancy.

“Well, you’ll hardly ever need me around when you’ve got a _real_ baby on the way.” I smiled at his little joke, but a piece of me crumbled a bit. Did he really believe I was going to let everything we had - have- go away?

I chuckled once awkwardly and turned from my wife to meet his gaze. And his eyes were ablaze. There was something there that looked like I was supposed to know something. Like I was supposed to read his mind and know exactly what he was trying to tell me. I swallowed and crinkled my eyebrows together as I quickly turned away.

After a brief moment of silence, Sherlock barked, “Dance. Both of you, now, go. We can’t stand here, people will wonder what we’re talking about.”

“But what about you?” Mary inquired.

“Yea, well we can’t all three dance, there are limits.”

"Go, I'll be fine." He grinned.

Mary pulled me away, and when Sherlock thought I wasn’t looking, he let his composure fall, and he looked _hurt_. Lonely. I watched his gaze drop to the floor and he shuffled away into the crowd of people. I couldn’t see him anymore, and returned my attention to Mary, who proceeded to dance with me for the next hour or so.

Towards the end of the night, I began searching for him again, but to no avail. He must’ve been slipping past me each time I turned around. Probably greeting family, friends, trying to seem pleasing as he did. But by when the time came to wrap up, he didn’t even stop by to say goodnight. I tried to not think too much of it, and pinned it to the idea that he must’ve been swept away with the crowd.

Mary and I said our goodbyes as we shoved into a car to take us to our brief honeymoon.

…

I don’t think I get enough credit for loving Sherlock. One morning, our next door neighbor Kate came knocking on our door, crying about her druggie son. Mary consoled her as I got dressed to find him at his the den she directed me to. As I headed out the door, Mary followed close behind, asking if I was really going to the crack house to find her son. I informed her of my good intentions, and she jumped into the car seat next to me, dressed only in her pajamas and a robe.

“You can’t come, you’re pregnant!”

“You can’t go, I’m pregnant.” She backfired.

The ride to the house was brief. As we pulled up, I hoped out and tucked a tire lever into my pants, and stormed in.

A druggie began yelling at me to get out and I told him I was looking for a “friend.”

“Isaac Whitney. You seen him?” And then he decided the best course of action to take was to pull a knife on me.

“Go,” He waved the blade towards the open door, threatening me with it.

“Oh, you couldn’t do much from here, let me help you.” I took a few steps forward, “Now think. Isaac. Whitney.”

When he wouldn’t cooperate, I lunged forward, grabbing and twisting his wrist as I slammed him into the wall with a little more force than intended. I kicked his legs from beneath him and watched as he slid to the floor.

“Is it supposed to feel squishy?!” A look of panic flooded his face.

“Yea, it’s a sprain, I know, I’m a doctor. Now where is Isaac Whitney?”

“I dunno.” I gave him a stern look, “Maybe upstairs.”

“There ya go, now that wasn’t so hard.”

I bounded up the steps to the top floor, and took in the sight. Rows of teens lined the walls. Some were sat up, others were in a fetal position on make-shift beds on the floor. It reeked of sweat, smoke, and another thing I couldn’t quite identify.

I heaved in a heavy breath and called out, “Isaac? Isaac Whitney?” A few more steps forward and I hissed again, “Isaac?” And I found him. He was slouched against the wall, closer to the back of the open space. A moan escaped his lips as his glazed eyes looked at me empty and almost lifeless.

“Hey, sit up.” I knelt at his side, “Can you do that? Can you sit up?”

“Doctor Watson?” He was obviously dazed and confused. “Where am I?”

“Center of the universe with the scum of the earth. Hey look at me.” I lifted his lids to get a better view of his pupils.

“H-have you come for me?”

“Yea, you alright?” I put a steady hand on his shoulder when a familiar voice snapped my head up.

“Oh, hello John.” That cheeky bastard. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Why is he here of all places? I thought he was clean! Why didn’t he come to me for help? Is this why he hasn’t replied to any of my calls or texts?

I turned slowly to make sure my ears were correct, “Have you come for me too?” A bloody child he was. I turned back to Isaac and sent him outside, as he was steady enough to make it to the car.

Sherlock was on his knees as he rubbed at his temples violently.

“Get over here.” I wasn’t as polite with him as I was with Isaac. I stuffed my hand under his arm and pulled him to his feet, half shoving, half guiding him to the stairs. He turned from my grasp and took another way. Sherlock hauled himself over to a wooden pane, where he punched through it almost effortlessly.

“For God sakes John, I’m on a _case_!” I berated him about not calling me for help, or to let me know he was ok. He continued the alibi that he was on a case. Through the screaming, I heard tires squealing and Mary hurrying to meet us.

“In. Both of you. _Quickly_.” She snapped. I jumped into the passenger side and Sherlock slid into the back. The druggie I sprained followed out, cradling his arm, and on it, I saw smudged words. As if he had tried to cover it with marker and then smear it away.

“Can I come too please?”

“No, go away.” Mary bit.

“Just, let him. Yeah get in the back, it’s just a sprain.” And with that, he squeezed in too, and Mary was now mothering three children.

She sped off to Bart’s hospital, where Molly could check “Shezza” for any serious drugs in his system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-o! Another update for you lovelies! After I get past 'His Last Vow,' everything will be fresh and new and wonderful for you guys. It does get better, I promise. I just want to get all the formalities out of the way, but not completely skipping over them. Ya feel? Good, great, wonderful. xxx


	8. Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John says goodbye to Sherlock and Mary?

The whole thing with Magnussen came and went with hardly any bumps along the way. Accept for the fact that Mary had blown a hole through Sherlock’s chest.

That fact infuriated me to no end. He made me feel obligated, as her husband, to tell her I was okay with everything she had done in her past. Of which I was most certainly not. But with a baby in our future, I guess needed to be there for Mary. I really do still love her, obviously, but things were going to be different between us now.

I often wondered if she really was my soulmate after all. Was my decision too hasty? Did I only want to forget Sherlock in that time of grief? Maybe Sherlock _was_ supposed to be my soulmate. Whatever the cause, I never saw Mary the same anymore.

My thoughts conflicted until I received news of Sherlock’s exile. After shooting the most powerful business man in the country (for Mary’s sake) Sherlock had been instructed by his brother to leave England immediately. To where? John didn’t know. All he was told, was that he would not be seeing Sherlock again anytime soon.

This was different than his…fall. This time, I had time to cope with my separation from the detective. In that time, I accepted the fact that, as this was his last time seeing Sherlock, his last words to John would not be, “John, it was a pleasure to love you.” I guess now I find the concept of a soulmate’s last words twisted. Why suffer through life, wondering, if the person you’re with now is really yours forever?

When the time came to depart from Sherlock, we only had a few final words to say to each other. The taller man seemed to have a speech worked up, building to a certain point, “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.” Of course, leave it to him to set off with a wise crack. What I didn’t know was, and what I later discovered, was that Sherlock wanted his last memory of me to be a happy one, where I was laughing and enjoying life.

After Sherlock had left, I spent a few moments staring at the empty tarmac, coming to terms with the fact that Sherlock was not, in fact, my soulmate. Whatever sliver of hope I had left, had died. Sure I was a bit crushed, but at the same time relieved that there was no drama to follow.

Mary and I turned back to Mycroft’s car. And that’s where they heard the news of Moriarty and his “return.” All three of us were equally confused, but I was thrilled at the idea of teaming up with Sherlock to capture their old enemy. Like the times from before. This also most certainly meant that Sherlock would be returning home.

And he did. Sherlock’s plane landed and the two of us got straight to work on the “task” at hand. We worked for days, talking to suspected accomplices, tracing records, and receiving intel from Sherlock’s homeless network.

…

About a week or so later, Mary began having contractions. It was the middle of the night, and Mary jolted awake in a panic. The sheets were soaked and she was clutching her belly, crying out in time with the contractions. I helped her to the car, trying to stay calm, cool, and collected for my wife. Sure I was a doctor, but _never_ had he worked in the maternity ward.

I sped down the empty streets towards our hospital. I quickly got Mary checked in and settled in a room where the doctors made sure she was comfortable. They timed her contractions and prepped for the final delivery.

I settled in the quiet waiting area to give Sherlock a call, as he would most certainly be up at this hour.

The detective answered almost immediately, “Hello, John.”

“Sherlock! Hi, aha, um, Mary’s having contractions.” My voice sounded off, tinged with both worry and excitement.

“Oh, that’s great! When did they start?”

“About an hour ago. Doctor’s said she’s not ready to deliver yet.”

“An hour?” Sherlock paused. “Alright, great, I’m assuming you would like me to be there?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, then yea.”

“I should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

I hung up and sat in the lounge, wearing pajama bottoms, a thin white t-shirt, and a robe. My feet were bare save for the my trashy slippers. I'm sure I looked rough. Sherlock quite the opposite, appearing in a slightly creased button down, jacket, and his black trousers. He had obviously not gone to bed yet.

I jumped up to meet him.

“How’s she doing?”

“Good, good. I went to check on her not too long ago, and she says she’s feeling a bit more relaxed. Still not fully dilated though.”

Sherlock hummed and checked the time on the wall, muttering to himself.

I pointedly noticed Sherlock’s odd behavior, “What?”

“Keeping time.”

More time flew by, and Mary gradually approached delivery. Hours had passed at this point, making me concerned, and even Sherlock was a bit on edge.

Another hour or so went by and a nurse appeared in purple scrubs to break the news to me and Sherlock that Mary was in a lot of pain.

“Honestly, in her situation, the baby should’ve been born at this point.” She explained, “We’ll have to perform a C-section. But it doesn’t look too good right now.”

I was froze to the spot. The woman apologized and Sherlock appeared silently behind me. “T-the…baby? Or Mary?” I could hardly form the words.

“Both of them I’m afraid. I’m so sorry Mr. Watson. You can come on back and see her now if you’d like.”

I swallowed the sick feeling in my stomach waving away her words, “Yea, just- Can I have a minute?”

“Of course.” The nurse moved closer towards the door to give me a bit of privacy.

Tears that I didn’t know were there rolled off onto my cheeks. Was I going to lose Mary _and_ their baby? There was no _way_ I could go on if that happened.

I turned towards Sherlock, hoping for answers, or some remark that the nurse was completely wrong and that Mary and the baby would be just fine. But Sherlock face was made of stone, chiseled with hurt and shock.

Defenseless, I threw himself at the detective needing comfort of any sorts. I knew Sherlock was opposed to such public displays of affection, but, right now, I just needed to feel another human being there with me.

As I predicted, the other man did not move. But only for a brief moment. Sherlock watched my old heart, scarred from war, crumble and understood that he was needed then. Awkwardly, he wrapped his lanky arms around me, and held me as I let out embarrassingly loud sobs. A man in pajamas frantically clinging to a man in slacks must’ve been quite the spectacle.

I finally collected himself, meeting Sherlock’s eyes for a brief moment.

“John, I-”

“No. It’s fine. I’m going to go back and see her. I need to be there for her now.” As I made his way to the nurse, waiting patiently at the door, I glanced down at my wrist that had the dying words of my soulmate engraved into my skin.

The woman led me to the back to be with Mary in, what could be, her dying moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OVERDUE update!!! I know! I've been really busy with my summer English project and school (excuses) and I haven't gotten around to posting a new chapter yet. Sorry if it's garbage, I wanted to get this out in a hurry because band camp starts tomorrow and I won't be able to post for another three weeks. Here's an extremely late chapter! Enjoy! <3


	9. The Results are In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, ok, my writing sucks, is full of grammar errors, and probably has many many plot holes. But apparently people read this???? And I enjoy writing it???????? All trash is good trash. It's a garbage-can, not a garbage-can't. So here's a long overdue chapter! <3

“Mary…” I gasped and stumbled over to the side of her bed. “Oh my god. Mary?” I locked our fingers and kissed the top of her hand, tears stinging my eyes, threatening to escape. I knew I needed to be strong for the both of us.

Mary was exhausted and in a lot of pain and it was clearly reflected in her eyes. “John,” Her voice wavered, “I’m scared.”

“I- I know, trust me, I am too. But it’s gonna ok. The doctors are going to make sure you’re comfortable and that the baby is safe and healthy.”

“We need to name her,” Mary got choked up on her own words, “If I don’t make it-”

“Hey, now. Don’t talk like that, everything’s going to be ok. You’re going to make it.”

Mary smiled and squeezed my hand, seeing right through this fake smile. “Ok. I love you…” She trailed off, becoming suddenly aware of the throbbing pain in her abdomen, as I helplessly listened to her heart monitor accelerate.

I began to panic, “Nurse! _Nurse!_ We need a nurse in here now!” The woman from before appeared followed by a doctor and two others. They rushed Mary away, leaving me behind, clueless and in a frenzy.

One of the male nurses explained it to me, “We have to perform the C-section now if there’s any chance to save Mary and the baby. We’ll give her some medicines to help her go under. She’ll be out for the entire process. I can promise she won’t be in any pain throughout.”

I forced a nod, “Ok, but- but you don’t understand That’s my wife… a-and my baby! I need to be in there.” I tried explaining the desperateness of the situation, moving past him but being stopped abruptly.

“I'm sorry. I can't let you do that, sir. The best thing for _you_ is to stay here. There’s nothing you could do if you were in there with her. You’d only put more strain on yourself.” He guided me back to one of the couches in the waiting room.

“Yea, of course. Right.” I made his way into the cramped area, where Sherlock still sat patiently, though a hint of worry creased his forehead. I slunk down into the couch cushion next to him and heaved a shaky breath. “I can’t do this again.”

“Can't do what?” Sherlock inquired, breaking concentration.

“Lose someone close to me. Someone you love? It’s like a piece of you just…just dies.”

“But, you said 'again'. What do you- Oh.” I glowered at Sherlock, watching his mouth form a small circle as he realized what he had said. The words seemed to taint the air, without need for them to be finished.

We both turned away from each other sheepishly. My eyes fell to my lap and I felt them grow heavy. Before I could even register my own exhaustion, my lids fell shut and I slumped into a deep sleep.

When I woke again, Sherlock was shaking me, “John. John!” He rattled my tired body, that had apparently made itself comfortable on the detective’s shoulder.

I immediately sat up, and noticed the nurse standing in the doorway, “Is everything alright? What happened?”

“John Watson?”

“Yeah?”

“Your wife delivered a healthy, beautiful baby girl.”

Tears shocked my eyes, “Oh, thank god.” I sniffled and asked a daring question, “Um, and Mary?”

She swallowed hard, “I’m sorry Mr. Watson. She lost too much blood. The doctors tried everything they could, but we lost her towards the end of the procedure. I’m so sorry. I know news like this can be hard to comprehend." When I didn't answer, she spoke again "I’ll give you some privacy.”

And with that, the nurse promptly left the room, leaving me to mourn. It felt like a blow to the chest, and my legs suddenly felt like they could not support my weight. Before I could collapse, Sherlock guided me by my shoulders to a sitting position on the couch. My breathing felt quiet and shallow.

Eventually waves of emotion rolled through me, and my body shook with each sob. Sherlock, having been quiet during the entire exchange, extended his lanky arms, allowing me to collapse into them.

Not wanting to pass the opportunity, I snaked my hands under Sherlock’s jacket and around his waist, burying my face into the detective’s shoulder, and gripping tightly. He let his chin rest on top of my hair. I was positive that I was staining the crisp shirt underneath with my crying, and I was sure people were walking past us like this, but I didn’t care for a bit.

When I finally pulled away, I looked up at Sherlock with blotched eyes, “W-what was the last thing she said to me? God, Sherlock, I don’t remember!” I grabbed at the sleeve of my robe and tugged it up frantically, revealing what were to be Mary’s last words: _John, it was a pleasure to love you._ I had to hold back a shriek.

That was not what she had said to me.

I was not her soulmate.

“John?” Sherlock’s low voice rang out in the small room. A hand landed on my shoulder, “John, I know it’s not what you wanted but-”

“‘But’ _what_ Sherlock?” I jumped up, angry. Angry at the world, and at myself for letting this happen. “‘But I still have time in my life to find my soulmate?!’ _She_ was supposed to be the one Sherlock. Now I know it could be anyone! Anyone at all!” I know I didn’t mean those words, but I was too shell-shocked to recognize what I was saying. “You are so _cold,_ you know that? You don’t even enough care to find your soulmate!”

“John, my soulmate will find me when they’re ready.” He spoke easily, trying to calm me down.

“Oh? Realy?! Sherlock I _loved_ her! You probably don't even know what it's like to love like that! An-and then she goes and shoots you, and then turns around and _dies_! What the _hell_ am I supposed to do now?!”

Sherlock jumps up to look down on me, any signs of hurt hidden behind a mask of rage, “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do!” He bellowed angrily, “You are going to say your goodbyes to Mary, and then you are going to see your child, who you’ve so selfishly neglected to even _see_ this entire time, and then you are going to raise that girl the _best_ you bloody can, because right now? _You. Are all. She has._ ” He stabbed a finger at my chest, punctuating each word.

Sherlock was right. There’s nothing I can do now. I have to go see my baby, and then say my goodbyes to my wife.

“You’re right.” I stood straight up. “I need to be there for her.” As soon as the words left my mouth I felt weak again. “Sherlock? I don’t even have a name for her. I-I told Mary not to worry because she’d-” I sat down again, and Sherlock stood unmoved.

“Go to Mary.” I heard him say quietly. "You need the closure."

Without another word, I brought myself to Mary’s room, where multiple nurses had stood around the door. Upon my arrival, they scattered, allowing me my privacy.

I sunk to my knees and examined her body, freshly stitched, pasty in color, and cold. That would be what I remember most about her. How cold she was when I grabbed her hand. How chilly her skin seemed when I turned over her arm to reveal her wrist. The words on it certainly not my last to her.

I felt terrible. Terrible that I couldn’t have been a better husband. Terrible that I couldn’t have been her soulmate. Terrible that I wasn’t even with her when she…died. My lips brushed her fingers lightly, my breath ghosting over the gold band on her finger. Tears pooled in my eyes again.

“I’m sorry, Mary...I’m sorry I couldn’t have saved you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know I should probably go back and do some heavy editing, but I don't know if it's really worth the time and effort? Up until now I hope my errors have been kept at a minimum. So if it really is bad, LET ME KNOW!! You won't hurt my feelings, I just want to keep my writing "cleaned up." xx


	10. I give up naming chapters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens in the events following Mary's death.

Of course I mourned. We all did. The funeral service was held shortly after she passed, and only a few showed, as she hardly made contact under her pseudonym. Sherlock, myself, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly made up most of the crowd.

Afterwards, Sherlock and I returned to the flat as I had begun staying there again. Mrs. Hudson was thrilled to have me back (only if it had been under different circumtances, dear), and Sherlock allowed me the luxury of keeping the baby's crib in his room. He claimed it would be best since he hardly used it anyways, and it'd be near the kitchen and bathroom in case of any minor emergencies. I tried offering to switch rooms with him completely, but he assured me that I would be able to enjoy some silence in my own room while I slept, and that he was capable of taking care of her in any case. 

I would like to think that the naming process was the hardest part. For three days my daughter had no name. Molly and Lestrade had given their input, and everyday Mrs. Hudson visited, she had a new name. I had been craddling my unnamed girl, my head swimming with all kinds of names for her, when one day, Sherlock piped up from his position on the couch, "I've always been partial to the name Claire."

"What makes you say that?" I asked, suddenly curious of the man near me. He just shrugged simply and refused to say more. "Yea I like that too. She looks like a Claire too, you think?"

Sherlock's eyes popped open and he narrowed them at me, "She's hardly been alive 72 hours, John, she doesn't look like an anything."

"Yea, I know but it seems to fit." I beamed down at my baby Claire and she yawned as if on cue. She had a small tuft of blond curl atop her head and a nose that would most closely resemble her mother's. A sigh of contentment left my lips before I brought myself to ask Sherlock, "Do you think we'll be able to do it? To raise Claire all by ourselves?"

"We?" All hopes of returning to a state of concentration had left him as he sat upright. 

"Yes, we. You and me will be all she has. The only constants in her life. Obviously I'm not planning on going anywhere, but what about you? Will she be able to count on you to be there?" 

Sherlock needed a minute to process my words, "Of course." Anybody could tell that he chose his next words carefully, "Of course. You can count on me to be there whenever she needs me." 

I grinned, mostly to myself, knowing that Sherlock would be there to help me through this. "Ok, let's start small. Why don't you come over here and hold her?"

"Ah, erm," He cleared his throat, "I've never actually held a baby before."

"Hey don't worry it's easy. Come here." When he refused to budge, I brought myself and Claire to sit on the couch by him. I started handing him the baby and he instinctively reached out for her, "You lay her head there, in your elbow. There you go, just like that. And then wrap your other arm undermeath her. Perfect." I guided his arms to the correct position amd watched as he relaxed into it. 

There was a moment of blissful peace as I watched him craddle her. One of her pudgy hands reached out and latched onto one of his bony fingers. That peace didn't last too long when she began crying. His eyes flicked up to mine in a panic, unprepared for this reaction. 

I chuckled and relieved him of his baby duties. I was excited to start this chapter of my life, and even more thrilled to know that my best friend would be along for the ride. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea I don't have any excuses for this being a couple months late, sorry gang. But I do hope that you can at least enhoy this bit! xx


	11. Baby Daddy Get Some

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relationships at Baker Street develope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey a chapter actually on time?? I know, Im surprised too. Remeber to share this story and comment!!

I've gone back to work for the first time since Mary died. Every morning I'd get up, make a couple of bottles for Claire, and leave a pile of new diapers so Sherlock could successfully watch over her while I was away during the day. 

"There should be enough food to last her for the day. If not, Mrs. Hudson knows how to make more. Diapers are on the table with the bibs."

"John, I'm a highly intelligent man. I think I can take care of a baby." He would say. On the days he had to work a case, Mrs. Hudson offered to take care of her.

One afternoon, I had returned to the flat for lunch. Sherlock must not have heard me, as there was no mention to my presence. 

"Shh, shh, shh." I barely made out his voice through the door to the sitting room. The door creaked as I opened it and Sherlock turned towards the sound. In his arms, Claire was sound asleep with her thumb wedged between her lips as Sherlock swayed gently back and forth. 

"John! I, uh, wasn't expecting you be home." _Home_. Referring to the flat in that way seems new everytime it comes up. 

I chuckled when Sherlock looked guiltily at me, as if being caught rocking the baby to sleep was something to be ashamed of, "Yea me neither, but I got done with my patient early so I decided to stop by."

"Oh, ok. Let me go put her down." He stepped into his room to lay her in her crib. I looked around and saw a half empty bottle of formula, a bib covered in baby dribble, and other assortments of baby supplies.  "Sorry, I just finished feeding her."

"It's fine. She hasn't been giving you too much trouble has she?" I helped clean the mess on the table. 

"Not at all. She's very serious though."

"Mm," I hummed in agreement, "I've noticed. I think she gets it from all the time she spends with you." He smiled at that, looking down at the wipes in his hands, his wrist with the printed words clearly visible with his sleeves rolled up. 

"I would have to agree with that." He squeezed past to toss the wipes in the bin, as I rinsed bottles at the sink.

A silence took hold of the room as we both shuffled around tidying what was left of the feeding massacre. 

"So..." Sherlock started awkwardly, "Have you been seeing anyone?"

"What?"

"No! I mean...with Mary gone, I didn't know...have you seen anyone since...nevermind." He sort of gave up on his poor attempt at a conversation. 

I was quiet for a moment, mulling over his words and why now was he curious about my dating life. Finally I said, "No. I haven't really. I have no idea how I could work a relationship into work and taking care of Claire." I set down the rag I was using to dry with and unconsciously scratched at my wrist, the words,  _John, it was a pleasure to love you,_ ringing in my ear. I turned to face Sherlock, who stood so calmly, seemingly satisfied with my answer. 

At that moment I saw Sherlock as someone else. Not a flatmate, not a friend, but a _person_. A beautiful person who was unexpectedly great with kids. A stunning human being with cheekbones, curly hair, and a slim stature. 

"I can order Chinese for lu-" 

Before he finished his sentence, I had lunged towards him, trapping his lips with my own. He stood stock still for a moment, obviously stunned at my reaction. But he eventually relaxed, letting his arms fall around my waist as my hands found their way into his mop of hair. 

I tugged gently at his curls and earned a moan in response. 

"Shh, Sherlock," I chuckled pulling back slightly, "Baby's sleeping."

He heaved a sigh, his hands unmoving from my hips, and kissed me again. Briefly this time. "Mrs. Hudson's babysitting tonight." His voice was low and his breath was heavy. 

I nodded quickly. When I went back to work for the last part of my shift, my minds was filled with images of Sherlock and our plans for tonight. 


End file.
